Monday, January 31, 2011

We continue with Obliged to Bend by B. A. Bradbury. In the previous selection Mrs Hammond, the prospective governess, was shown an amazing array of implements, and chose a cane for her own disciplinary session. It now begins.

"Then kindly raise your skirts," I said, "at the back."

She gave me one last unhappy glance then lifted her skirts to her waist. I squatted behind her and pulled her drawers down to her ankles, and she murmured as I did so, clearly ill at ease. I guessed she had hoped to retain these for modesty's sake, but there was not the slightest chance I would allow that, out of respect for my grandfather's memory...

Her broad, full buttocks were creamy-white, smooth and beautifully rounded... I was tempted to smack her, there and then, for there's nothing quite like the feel of a firm bottom bouncing under your palm, but I refrained, not wishing to set my dignity at risk. A punishment is a serious matter, and must be conducted accordingly. A few playful slaps might be great fun (for me, at least) but could easily give the impression this was all just a game, which it most certainly was not.

So now Mrs Hammond waited, eyes shut fast, breast rising and falling rapidly; yet I delayed, savouring the moment. Then I raised the cane and tapped it lightly against her buttocks three times: tap-tap-tap.

"Oh," she gasped, buttocks clenching and back arching as she rose up onto her toes.

She had no way of knowing it, but she had just been introduced to my famous Triple-Tap-Tester. And much it had revealed to me, for I was convinced now the woman had never been caned before. Her reaction to the gentle tap was that of a complete novice, out of all proportion to the mere tickle she received. She was a spanking virgin, which made all this doubly pleasurable for me. Like footprints across a field of freshly fallen snow, the stripes I was about to leave on her posterior would be all mine, with no one there before me...

And I could delay no longer. I drew back my arm and struck her. This was no light tap, but a lively stroke that whistled on its way. Not desperately hard, yet crisp enough to give her something to think about, it contacted Irene Hammond's behind with a satisfying thwick. She yelped and her hips jerked forward.

A second stroke followed, then a third, and a fourth. Once she realized it wasn't as bad as she'd feared, Mrs Hammond seemed to settle a little. I made the fifth stroke somewhat harder, both to undermine her confidence and to set her twitching again.

After the next I stopped to examine her. Six narrow pink tramlines, marks typical of a cane, showed against her white skin. Evenly spaced and virtually identical, they were weals to be proud of. An excellent start, I thought, to what promised to be a most enjoyable session.

"May I rub, sir?" she asked, once she realized this was more than just a longer pause between strokes. I was pleased that she understood a penitent must ask permission before rubbing her bottom. There are some, I know, who consider this old-fashioned but I was taught by a master of the old school and take pride in these ancient traditions.

While Mrs Hammond rubbed her tingling behind, I watched her face. She looked very thoughtful, and I imagined she was wondering how much worse it would get.

"Thank you, sir," Mrs Hammond said, with a respectful glance in my direction. She hitched her skirts up a little higher, closing her eyes to await the remaining strokes.

I had to smile, for I recognized these actions of hers -- thanking me, and adopting the position in this way -- for what they were. She was attempting to dictate the pace of the proceedings. It was understandable that she wanted her punishment over and done with as quickly as possible, but the penitent must never be allowed to take control in this manner. Mrs Hammond must be left in no doubt as to who was master.

I left her standing there, stoically awaiting the remaining two and a half dozen, while I strolled to the bell-pull and rang for Alice. The maid appeared in a trice, I asked her to pour me a brandy, and I saw her eyes register astonishment as she took in the scene before her as she scuttled across to the cabinet by the window.

"Tell me, Mrs Hammond," I said, "do you think you will like our Oxfordshire countryside?"

"Why...yes, sir, I... I believe I will," she stammered.

"We have some fine elms in the neighbourhood. Did you notice them on your way from the railway station?"

"I... No, sir... I can't say that I did."

Alice carried the brandy over to me on a small silver tray, curtsied, and then attempted to slip away unnoticed. I had other ideas, however.

"Alice," I said, "you're a native of these parts. I'm sure you'll agree the countryside hereabouts is beautiful."

"Yes sir, thank you sir," she said, glancing at the door with a look of longing desperation, curtseying twice more for good measure.

I swirled the brandy in the glass and sampled its nose. Excellent. I strolled back to where Mrs Hammond waited. Casually I stroked her buttocks, pretending to examine the marks left by the cane. In reality, of course, I was drawing the maid's attention to them -- and more importantly, letting Irene Hammond know that I wished the staff to witness her humiliation.

"England can boast many fine counties," I said, "but I challenge anyone to name a prettier valley than our own, eh, Alice?"

"Yes sir, thank you sir."

"Thank you, Alice. You may go."

She curtsied once more and hastily departed. Her eagerness to be back in the relative safety of the servants' quarters was understandable. Canes and raised skirts were all too familiar to the girl; possibly she believed the combination to be contagious.

I finished my drink at leisure, deposited the glass on the table and sauntered back to my victim. I stood before her and looked directly into her troubled eyes. "I think," I said quietly, "we will now carry on where we left off. Does that meet with your approval, Mrs Hammond?"

Thursday, January 27, 2011

I haven't told you about my Christmas spanking, have I? Yes, I actually got spanked on the day!

One of the gifts I gave Ron was a package containing several kitchen tools. The first and second were useful for vanilla purposes. This was the third:

"What's this?" Ron asked, as he pulled it from the box. He read the cardboard label. "It's a spatula. A high-heat resistant spatula." Then he looked at me quizzically. "Not for the kitchen, though."

"No, it's not," I grinned, embarrassed but delighted that he understood the implement's real purpose.

Then he rummaged in the box, pulled aside the tissue paper, and extracted the last item.

"And what's this called?"

"A wedge."

"Also not for the kitchen." Ron tapped it against his palm, experimenting with the weight and feel.

"We can try them out later," I hinted, and heard no disagreement.

The rest of the day was spent setting up a new technological gadget. After numerous trips to the computer to read the online help manual or to Google the latest problem, we both needed some stress relief.

Since Christmas fell on our usual day for spanking, when the appointed time rolled around I suggested to Ron that it was time to try out his presents. He muttered something about basting the turkey, but I assured him we would be done before it needed more attention.

So we climbed the stairs to the bedroom, where I obediently lowered my jeans and panties and positioned myself over the end of the bed.

The spatula was an oversized one - much bigger than the usual kind. Splat! It produced a satisfying thud and was just right for a warmup.

The wedge was formidable, though. Also rather large, it packed a real wallop. Ron was impressed.

"I like this. It bounces right off your butt."

"Oh, good."

Ron happily alternated sets using one, then the other. This was one Christmas I wouldn't forget in a hurry. But alas, all good things must come to an end. We heard the stove timer pinging; the turkey beckoned.

"That's all. You're as red as Rudolph's nose," Ron announced. He opened the implement drawer, added the two latest additions to his arsenal, then came back, put his arms around me and whispered, "Merry Christmas."

Monday, January 24, 2011

Today we have another excerpt from Obliged to Bend by B. A. Bradbury. Jamie, whom we met last week, is grown up now, and lives in a large, splendid house. He has become the guardian of three young nieces, and is interviewing a prospective governess. The applicant made the mistake of telling a lie about her previous employment, was found out, and now must take the consequences.

Between the tall oak cupboard and the bookcase in my study, directly opposite the door that leads out into the hall, is a second door. It was to this that I led Mrs Hammond.

The key was in the lock, I turned it, opening the door to reveal a medium-sized room. The governess gave a gasp of astonishment, or possibly dismay, for the room housed a collection of whips, lashes, riding crops, straps, paddles and canes that I doubt can be bettered anywhere in England, if not the whole of Europe. There was barely an inch of wall space that was not occupied by some implement of correction.

They hung on pegs, row upon row of them, and beside each piece was a small plaque giving details of its pedigree. Some were antiques, far too precious to be used. Many had travelled from distant and exotic countries. A select few had been owned by famous people and were of considerable historical and sociological interest. Few people would guess, for instance, that a certain government minister was never without a tawse, even when he journeyed abroad, or that a lady within the royal household carried a special folding cane in her handbag.

Implements from distant and exotic countries? Like Canada? There must have been a Canadian prison strap in his collection. And any guesses which member of the royal household carried a cane? My instinct says Princess Anne.

Many more, perhaps half of the total number, were more commonplace and I had no compunction about using them - as Alice and Rose [the servants] knew to their cost. But, prestigious or prosaic, every last one of them was imbued with a sense of purpose that was tangible.

Mrs Hammond stared at the display in a sort of hunted fascination. The flogger in her must surely have been awed and enthralled by the sight, but she was seeing the collection from the viewpoint of a recipient, which was a very different kettle of fish.

I allowed her to absorb the spectacle for several seconds longer, and then closed the door. "We shall not," I said gently, "be needing any of these today."

She looked at me, treating me to another play of expression across those delightful features. Confusion, uncertainty, and finally hope all too their turn at centre stage. Truly, the woman had a most expressive face. "Shall... shall we not, sir?"

"No indeed, Mrs Hammond. We shall not."

I locked the door and pocketed the key. She realized then that I had been teasing her all along, or perhaps testing her resolve. Her bottom was to be spared; there was to be no punishment... The relief and gratitude in her eyes was most satisfying...

I stepped to my left and opened the doors to the oak cupboard. "One of these," I said, "will do perfectly well."

Mrs Hammond's look of relief died in infancy as she surveyed my day collection. Any woman relying on my sense of compassion to deliver her from her ordeal is living in a fool's paradise...

My day collection might be small compared with that in the adjoining room, but all the articles had been carefully selected for their practicality. There were three (one light, one medium and one heavy) of each of the more common types of implement: cane, paddle, ruler and tawse. In addition, there were a couple of multi-thong lashes and a short whip of the style usually referred to as a quirt.

Side by side, the governess and I viewed this modest yet versatile collection. I swept my hand across in a grand gesture. "Please select one, Mrs Hammond," I said.

Now, it was not at all my usual practice to allow the penitent the luxury of choice at this point. This was a special occasion, however, and I was interested to observe her reaction. She stood there for a full minute, her hand hovering first over one item then another. Finally she chose the medium cane. I suspect it was a case of "better the devil you know...", but it was not a wise choice, and spoke to me of a lack of appreciation of the finer points of flogging.

A cane, particularly one of the heavier varieties, can inflict a monumental amount of pain in the right hands. She would have done better to have picked the lightest ruler or paddle. These can certainly sting fiercely when wielded enthusiastically, but cannot replicate the searing, white-hot pain of a hard cane stroke.

But no, a cane it was to be; she held it out to me, handling it somewhat gingerly as though the thing might bite her. I accepted it graciously, took her arm once more and led her to the centre of the room.

"We shall have three sets of twelve," I announced, "with a change of position following each set. Is that agreeable?"

Sunday, January 23, 2011

Michael: A young Morticia Addams waiting for Gomez Addams and his "cigar."

Kaelah: I'm quite sure she won't say anything. She just waits there for a poor top who can't resist and spanks her. And then she is going to eat him (or her, of course) alive. The spankee version of a “black widow”! ;-)

Ronnie: "Please how much longer do I have to pose like this before you spank me?"

Prefectdt: "Oh! You didn't say that you where bringing the Vicar with you, in your text message, saying that you were on your way home."

Recidavist: "Ok, I get why I have to take my pants down when I'm going to be spanked,....but remind me again why I also need to be topless?"

SixoftheBest: The Naughty Tattoo Lady is saying "Can you tattoo my naked butt, by giving me 'six of the best' with your cane? I want to show Hermione my portfolio of artistic etchings."

Kingspan: "You said you'd tan my hide if I got a tattoo. Well? I did my part..."

Dublin Paolo: "..I'd call you a sadistic, hippophilic necrophile, but that would be like flogging a dead horse."

Friday, January 21, 2011

Thursday, January 20, 2011

Lately Ron has been using a new technique. It started with the paddle, called "The Wedge", that I bought him for Christmas. It's big and wide, and he found that he could apply it to both my bottomcheeks simultaneously.

"This one's a double-cheeker," he enthused.

His interest in double-cheeking continued the day I brought out some implements we hadn't used in a while. One of them was the leather belt. That too was applied across my full bottom. Goodness, that man's technique with a belt has improved so much since we started. He never leaves bruises any more, and although he's a wood lover, he really makes it - and me - sing.

His latest double-pronged attack was with the black leather strap. He alternated it with two other implements that were used singly, but each time he applied the strap, it was to both cheeks at once - sometimes across the middle, or a little higher, or (ouch!) low, just above the tops of my thighs.

What do I think? Well, it all hurts, but I have been used to the left - right - left - right pattern for so long that it took a bit of getting used to. Still, change is always exciting, and I enjoy variety, so I'm all for it.

Which do you prefer? Individual attention to each cheek, or the combined method?

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

This batch of cookies would raise some eyebrows at coffee break time. Isn't the detail wonderful? All those colours and styles. These were obviously made by pastry chef who is a connoisseur of bottoms.

Monday, January 17, 2011

I recently picked up a lovely book called Obliged to Bend by B. A. Bradbury. It's the story of an English gentleman who has become the guardian of three lively nieces in their late teens. The first excerpt I have chosen to share with you is about a significant day in his childhood, when he learned some important lessons about administering corporal punishment.

It is often said that boyhood is the happiest time of a man's life, and for me that was certainly true. Growing up in my grandfather's house, watching him (and in later years helping him) discipline maids, housekeepers and cooks galore was a magical time indeed.

Though my grandfather was undoubtedly the centre of my universe, he did not have the sole claim on my affections, but rather shared them with Grace Forsyth, his lifelong friend and companion. I became aware of the hidden side of their relationship one Christmas morning. I went along to Grace's sitting room to thank her for my present. Finding the door closed, I opened it and ran in -- a gross invasion of her privacy and inexcusable, even for a youngster carried away by the excitement of the season.

Grace was standing before the fire, hands clasped behind her head, leaning forward from the hips. She wore nothing but a thin silken shift, pale blue in colour and trimmed with white fur. The hem was raised to her waist and pinned there so that her broad bottom, plump thighs and calves were fully displayed. Her limbs were white as milk though her buttocks were a deep pink with darker red patches. My grandfather was standing behind her, a tawse in his right hand. With his left hand he stroked her buttocks, as though assessing the damage caused by the strap.

Grace's eyes were closed, and for a moment or two she was oblivious to my presence. My grandfather looked over at me, however, and straightened, a broad smile spreading slowly across his whiskered face.

I went further into the room. Though I loved Grace dearly, and would never wish to hurt her, a part of me tingled with excitement at the prospect of seeing her spanked.

"Since Jamie's here," my grandfather said to her, "we'll have another dozen."

"Gerald," she protested gently, "he's just a lad."

"Damn it, Grace," came the reply, "he has to learn sometime. In any case, he's seem a good few thrashings already, haven't you, lad? Didn't upset him a bit. A man after my own heart, our Jamie."

Pride surged through me. This man that I so revered was speaking of me as an ally and confidante. I felt closer to him at that moment than I'd ever been to anyone in my life.

Grace made no protest thereafter, though I could tell she was not entirely happy having me there. My grandfather told her to adopt the position once more as she had straightened and lowered her arms during the exchange. She complied, leaning forward once more clasping her hands behind her head.

He raised his arm and gave her a hard stroke full on the curve of her buttocks. He was using a long, heavy, three-tailed tawse -- though at the time I thought of it simply as a strap, being unaware of the distinction -- and the crack as this fearsome article contacted her skin was astonishingly loud.

Grace let out a cry and her shoulders rose.

"Down," my grandfather warned her. "Bend lower."

It was clear that the force of the blow had caught her out. Slowly she reassumed the stance, leaning forward so that her torso was almost horizontal.

"One, sir," she said in a voice that was far from steady.

His second stroke was even harder but this time Grace bit back her cry. "Two, sir."

My grandfather raised his arm. I was facing the same dilemma now that I had encountered at those previous sessions, watching Fanny, Sylvie and Nell under the rod. I wanted to look at her bottom, to see the strap bounce off her quivering flesh and observe the change in colour -- from pink to red, and red to purple -- as tender flesh protested this treatment. But I also wanted to watch her face as the blows landed, to see her mouth gape and her eyes mist with pain. In short, I was in the classic flogger's predicament.

I resolved it now as I had before, by watching the first half dozen from the back, then moving forward to witness the rest from the front. This tactic clearly amused my grandfather, though he made no comment.

Stroke number seven was brutally hard, and Grace's face showed extreme distress. Her posterior had been well drubbed even before this dozen started, as evidenced by the substantial bruising, so these fierce strokes must have been agonizing for her.

The punishment proceeded slowly, my grandfather clearly in no hurry. The twelfth stroke came at last, hardest of all. Grace Forsyth took it with immense courage, remaining in position as a dutiful penitent should. "Twelve, sir,"

My grandfather turned and treated me to a wink. "What do you say, Jamie? Shall we give her a few more for luck?"

I stole a glance at Grace and saw her face fall. That the beating should continue when she thought it was over was a cruel reversal, and dreadfully hard on her.

"How many more should we give her, do you think?" my grandfather asked. "Six? Twelve?"

This landed me in another dilemma. As Grace's friend I wished to spare her more suffering, but the spanker in me was caught up in the excitement, wanting the punishment to go on forever. I was in a quandry and unable to decide. I stared at my grandfather in confusion. He must have perceived my difficulty, for he posed the question to the lady herself.

"Six or twelve, Grace dear?"

"Twelve, sir," she replied promptly.

"Hard strokes or medium?"

"Hard strokes, please sir."

It was with the utmost lack of enthusiasm that she spoke these words, yet there was no hesitation or uncertainty. I was astonished that she could ask for such a thing, given her present distressed state.

"Well, Jamie?" my grandfather said. "Do we do what Grace wants? Is it to be another dozen sizzlers?"

He was smiling, but I knew it was a serious question. It was as if this were a test. The quandry remained, but I knew I must answer without delay. Knowing no better, I said what was in my heart.

"No, grandfather. I think she's had enough."

His smile broadened and he nodded. "So do I, my boy, so do I. You may stand up straight, Grace. This punishment is concluded."

At the time it seemed not so very different from the several other thrashings I had witnessed, except that the recipient was someone dear to me. But looking back on it now, I understand that my grandfather was furthering my education, making me aware of new aspects of this noble art of spanking. I now knew that a strong, courageous woman could endure a hard punishment with fortitude and spirit; that affection for the victim was no bar to beating them; that the victim should never beg for leniency, rather she should ask for more. And finally (and most importantly of all, perhaps), that it was sometimes appropriate and just for a flogger to show mercy and restraint -- a valuable lesson.

I will have another excerpt from this book soon, and you will see how Jamie the man follows in his grandfather's footsteps.

Season: Photographer: "Now stand still this time so I can get the shot. I don't want to hear any more about how much your corset hurts or I'll take that crop and really give you something to whine about."

Ronnie: Lady Patricia Rosemary Smythe. Patron of the newly formed Disciplinary Wives Club. New members most welcome.

Scunge: "What do you mean wipe that scowl off your face!? Just you wait until you are finished taking this snap then I'll..."

Rattan: "Lady Violet de Pierrepoint decided her portrait photographer had been frightfully tardy."
and "Mistress Beatrice Birch was delighted with her new passport picture."

Marqe: " If you Sir think I'm spending the next four hours removing this bloody stupid outfit just so that you can give me a deserved whipping then you can ..... swivel on it Sir!"

Saturday, January 15, 2011

I used this picture some time ago in a post about spanking with implements intended for equestrian purposes. What caption would you suggest is appropriate for this portrait of an elegantly dressed lady? Is she about to go riding? Or is discipline on her mind?

Submit your caption as a comment, and I will publish them all tomorrow.

Thursday, January 13, 2011

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

One of the programs we record for watching in our spare time is Location, Location, Location. It's a British program featuring two real estate agents: Phil Spencer and Kirstie Allsop. Each week they help two very different couples find their dream homes. The stars are witty, playful and resourceful, but they don't always succeed in selling the homes they show their clients. Said clients are usually difficult, demanding, and just plain clueless; we often think they ought to be spanked.

A little OTK before the clients arrive?

Phil and Christy are, however, always entertaining. And never more so than on a recent episode, when they revealed their penchant for spanking. As a segue between one couple and the other, there was a long shot of the two walking along a road. Phil swung his arm out and swatted Christy on the backside. She playfully batted his arm away and flailed her arms at him to ward him off, but he returned and connected with another swat. The spanks were over clothing, including a long coat, and they both appeared to be enjoying themselves.